


we won't eat our words, they don't taste so good

by umbrellalich



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, a raychael break up fic with mavin for flavor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-27 14:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellalich/pseuds/umbrellalich
Summary: It has been said that when one door closes another always opens, but we usually look so long, so intently, and so sorrowfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one that has opened.The door shuts. Michael doesn't look away.





	we won't eat our words, they don't taste so good

"Michael, I'm leaving."  
  
Ray is leaning against the banister of the hotel balcony, the bright lights of London reflecting against his glasses. It’s 3 am, on the second to last night of their first ever European tour, and they’ve just gotten back from a party at the UK headquarters for the label they signed to last year. The rest of the band was in their respective rooms, but Ray always dropped into Michael’s before he went to sleep. It’s their little tradition — a nice talk, a beer and a Dr. Pepper, a shitty movie or a good view, city lights twinkling like stars out of the hotel window, a good luck charm before their performances and interviews.

Michael laughs from beside him and gently nudges his shoulder into Ray’s. "Listen I know you're mad at Gav but we still have another gig tomorrow you can't fly ho—"

"No. I'm leaving the band." The laughter dies in Michael’s throat. Ray still isn’t looking at him, preferring the hazy skyline, glowing with light pollution from the billboards and streetlights. His face is blank; he isn’t joking. Ray doesn’t even glance in his direction before continuing on, saying, "I cant… this isn't what I wanted. It's too big… it’s too… industry now. I wanted independent… I was PROMISED independent."

"Ray— "

"Did you hear the track Jack just wrote? That's not pop punk Michael, that's just pop."

Michael flounders. It was true; the style of music was changing, but what band doesn’t evolve? They had to or they couldn’t be competitive. How could Ray not see that? He had to see that; it was still his words they were using, their hearts in the chords. He begins, "Its upbeat but—"

Ray cuts him off. "You can't convince me. I'm telling them tomorrow. I don't want this anymore. My heart's not in it."

Michael’s heart feels like it has been plunged into an ice bath. He opens his mouth to protest, to beg, to do...something, but his phone rings. Ray glances over at him for the first time, and Michael notices his eyes are glimmering. Michael stares back at him, hoping he doesn’t look as crushed as he feels, before fumbling to get his phone out of his pocket. A familiar beaked face stares back at him. "Oh shit,” he mutters, “it’s Gavin. Let me —"

Ray's face hardens. "No, take the call. Don't wanna keep you from your boi,” he says, and shoves past Michael towards his hotel room door.

The gears in Michael’s head start turning, and the heartbreak suddenly gives way to rage. "This isn't about the music at all, is it? Ray. RAY!" he shouts, not even bothering to turn around.

The door slams behind him.

Michael punches the balcony bannister.

* * *

> Ray Narvaez Jr Leaves Hunters  
By Johanna Smith
> 
> Ray Narvaez Jr, the bassist of the up-and-coming group ‘Hunters’, has left the band to pursue solo projects.
> 
> Narvaez tweeted this morning that he would be departing from the group, days after the end of their first ever European tour. In his statement, Narvaez expressed that Hunters had been “the best three years of his life,” and expressed his thanks towards founding member Geoff Ramsey for giving him a chance, as well as thanking the fans for their “constant support”. Towards the end of his message, Narvaez hinted at a possible solo career, telling those interested to keep an eye on his social media to see what comes next, and dropping a link to his Bandcamp page, which is currently blank.
> 
> Several of Narvaez’s fellow band members tweeted their messages of support as well.
> 
> Embedded:
> 
> Gavin Free: It’s been a top 3 years, lad <3
> 
> Lindsay Tuggey: Best of luck man. Hell of a time. The recording booth will be eagerly awaiting your return.
> 
> Geoff Ramsey: Yes it’s sad, but everyone seems to be ignoring that with Ray gone, I’m now the second best member of the band.
> 
> Jack Pattillo: I’m sad about Ray leaving. Who else is gonna write my oboe solos into songs now?
> 
> Michael Jones: Good luck, you bitch. (reply — Ray Narvaez Jr: <3)
> 
> Hunters is a pop punk band based out of Austin, Texas, signed with Cockbite records. Their second album, _Flynt and Coal_, is currently available for purchase and streaming.

* * *

  


Ray promises that nothing will change, and he still is gonna hang out with them as much as he can. He only lives twenty minutes from the studio after all.

And if Michael knows he’s lying, well, he doesn’t say anything.

Ray calls Tina shortly after he gets home and she runs over with a trunk full of recording equipment. They set up a small home studio — a mediocre mic, one old acoustic and a second-hand electric guitar, drum loops for Garageband, and Ray’s shiny purple bass. Tina helps him set up his Bandcamp, monitors his recording, and goes over his lyrics at lunch.

“You’re being a bit melodramatic,” she says, circling a line in red pen.

“All emo is melodramatic,” Ray replies around a handful of chips, but makes a mental note to tone down the death metaphors.

Their days are spent in his basement, sitting on storage containers. Ray’s microphone is boosted up on a stack of boxes. Tina listens to him sing, popping an ear off her headphones and going, “I know how badly you wanna be Gerard Way but you don’t sing that well. Do it better this time.” He laughs.

It’s just the two of them (no labels, no executives, no changing to get a “radio worthy single”) and for the first time, Ray feels excited to make music again.

* * *

  


“You can talk to me, you know that right?” Geoff says, pouring over Michael’s beaten up song notebook.

Michael doesn’t turn, staring at their golden record award for _Achievement Unlocked_, their first album. “I talk to you all the time.”

“Yeah,” Geoff starts, and Michael can hear the trepidation in his voice, “but I mean about like, real stuff.”

“Geoff?” Michael asks, turning to face him.

“I mean, we all miss Ray but like, you guys had a thing going so, like, if you need to —”

“Oh my god, this shit again.” Michael rolls his eyes, stomping over to the desk. “Jack gave me this talk this morning. I’m fine! I’m happy for him. Jesus.” He leans over and snatches the notebook out of his hand.

“I know but —”

“Yeah. I get it. If I wanna pour my heart out I’ll be sure to come to you, _Dad_,” Michael snips, rushing out of the room.

Geoff sighs through pursed lips.

And if anybody finds it concerning Michael’s only contribution to their third album was songs about broken hearts and missed chances, nobody says anything.

* * *

> [excerpt]  
**Pitchfork Reviews: Twitches by Ray Narvaez Jr**  
In a stunning departure from his previous work, Narvaez’s first solo album strips down rock to its bare essentials, giving a poignant take on life, love, and the bitterness that comes with it. 8.5/10
> 
> [....] The real stand out is _Better as Friends_, a song that tells of a romance that never was, a friendship falling apart, two people that are bad for each other but keep gravitating towards each other. It is heartbreakingly relatable song that anyone who had to end their own toxic relationship, platonic or romantic, can find a foothold in. Narvaez’s killer bassline and raw vocals send this song over the top — if you can only listen to one song from this album, make it this one.

* * *

  


Michael makes it about three songs.

They’re on break in the studio. Ryan and Jack are pouring over Geoff’s latest batch of bassists that passed their first round of auditions. Michael is tuning up his guitar, trying to fix it after Gavin bastardized it in an attempt to get a new sound for _Golden Boy_ (_"Mi-cool, this will sound sooo goood Mi-cool”_). Gavin is leaning against him, texting Lindsay cat gifs to distract her from the meeting she’s in with Burnie and Matt about their future.

Geoff put on Ray’s new album. He is currently sat next to the speaker, phone open to Genius lyrics, and he keeps nodding to himself after Ray pulls off a line Geoff deems impressive.

Michael desperately tries to keep his attention on his guitar as Ray’s stupid voice bumps through their studio.

“Fuck you, Gavin,” he mutters through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna have to buy a whole new guitar to fix this mess.” His tuner is flashing bright red at him again. Too sharp this time. He regrips the tuning keys, Ray’s voice still pounding in his ears, trying to focus.

Gavin laughs, his back shaking against Michael’s. “Aw, but I like that one. All silver and sleek. It matches my new song.”

“Your new song is shit.”

“Don’t be like that. You’re just mad that I made you change key.”

“Guitars don’t even have keys, dipshit.”

Gavin grins at him and waves his hand in a “aw, you know what I meant” fashion. Michael actually feels himself calm down.

And then.

That fucking song comes on.

He knows the fucking song. How could he not?

Ray’s voice grates over him, the fake drum loop like a siren in his ears. And that fucking bassline. It’s good — not good, great. Ray plays it like he owns it. Michael hates it. It’s his. It’s his fucking bassline, he wrote it eight years ago and showed it to Ray, and now this _motherfucker_ —

“Can you turn this shit off?” Michael snaps, his fingers tightening dangerously.

Geoff doesn’t even look up from his phone. “This is the best song, dude.”

“I didn’t fucking ask.”

The vitriol in his voice causes Ryan to turn away from the auditions.

“Uh, you good, Michael?” he asks, concern filling his face.

Michael laughs, a dark and twisted sound from deep in his chest. “I’m great. Why wouldn’t I be great? He just hasn’t answered my texts in months and now he puts out this bassline and it’s MY FUCKING —”

The D string snaps. Michael shakes, biting his lip to keep his mouth shut. The room is silent, all eyes on him, except, of course, for the song. It thunders through his head, mocking him.

He tosses his guitar to the floor and storms out of the room.

“Michael?” Gavin calls from behind him, alarmed, but he doesn’t stop walking until he charges out the back door of the studio.

Michael screams, loud and guttural.

Then he cries.

* * *

@ramseyhunterxo:  
I was able to transcribe the new Hunters interview from GMA this morning. First interview with Jeremy!! (Read More)

> **Interviewer:** Welcome back to Good Morning America, I’m joined here with Hunters who just played the song _New York_ off their upcoming album _D.A.D_ —
> 
> **Geoff:** Dead as [bleeped, presumably “dicks”], obviously.
> 
> **Interviewer:** [laughs] Obviously. Now, could you tell us a little bit more about the song we just heard?
> 
> **Jack:** I mean, you should take it since you wrote it.
> 
> **Michael:** Yeah, guess I should. It’s, uh, it’s a song inspired by a date I had in the city when I was a teenager, I guess. Just like, you know, that young love that feels like it’ll never end… and then it does. So it’s very melodramatic and crap.
> 
> **Ryan:** Very on brand for teenagers.
> 
> **Michael:** You gotta pander to your target demographic.
> 
> **Interviewer:** And this is the first live performance with Jeremy on board! Jeremy, how are you feeling stepping into Ray’s footsteps?
> 
> **Geoff:** Well, not really into his footsteps — Jeremy has very much carved out his own position in the band. It’s a great and new energy.
> 
> **Gavin:** And he’s way more attractive. Look at that head!
> 
> **Michael:** Like an egg.
> 
> [Jeremy rolls his eyes. Gavin laughs.]
> 
> **Jeremy:** To answer your question, it’s a dream come true. I’ve been a huge fan of these guys since their first songs uploaded to YouTube, and it’s an honor to play bass for them. And I definitely wouldn’t say I’m taking Ray’s place at all; nobody can replace that guy’s talent, y’know?
> 
> **Interviewer:** Speaking of Ray, you, Michael, are listed as a songwriter on his new album Twitches. Care to explain how that came to be?
> 
> **Michael:** There’s not really much to explain. Ray just borrowed some old chords I wrote back when we were just getting into the music scene, like eight years ago. He totally reworked them so they’re barely mine at all. Nice of him to credit me though.
> 
> **Interviewer:** I mean I think all the fans agree that those chords that are “barely yours” [air quotes done visibly] are some of the best on the album. Do you think the two of you would collaborate on any more songs?

* * *

  


After how long they’ve known each other, Ray knows exactly how Michael tenses.

It’s 9am, Tina insisting that they need to watch Good Morning America that day, live no less. She stares intently as his former band play live, Ray choosing instead to pretend to be on Twitter. He would have gotten away with it, too, if the interviewer didn't say his name, causing his eyes to lock onto the TV.

Ray watches the veins in his neck pop, his shoulders lock up, his eyes go cold, his face go rigid. A tight smile stretches over his teeth, exposing his incisors like fangs.

“I don’t know,” Michael says, brusqueness barely camouflaged by false politeness, “You’ll have to ask Ray yourself. I don’t anymore.”

Ray crunches his diet coke can in his hand.

“This mother_fucker_,” he snarls, slamming the power button on the remote.

Tina glances over her shoulder. “Excuse me, I was watching that. Emily Blunt is on next.”

Ray barely reacts to her. “Did you hear that fucking prick?” he asks, mostly rhetorical. “_‘I don’t anymore’_. That son of a bitch. That’s the next six months of my life, you know that?”

“I think you’re overreacting,” Tina says, shrugging noncommittally.

Ray turns to stare at her, incredulous. “How the fuck am I supposed to pave my own way if I’m being asked about the Hunters every time I turn around!”

“How do you think they feel being asked about you?” Tina mutters, resigned. Ray ignores her.

“He’s pissed at me that I used his fucking bassline. He shouldn’t be, he fucking wrote it for me. Piece of shit. This is so fucking petty.”

Tina sighs. “Listen,” she says, “I’m gonna go watch my interview upstairs so you can calm down. And not to take his side or anything, but I’d be annoyed if my ex-boyfriend stole my music without telling me.”

“He wasn’t…” Ray starts, but he can’t force the rest of the sentence out of his throat.

* * *

Michael writes eight more songs about Ray. Each of them get progressively angrier.

Michael writes a song about Gavin, called _Austin_.

Ray writes two more songs about Michael after that. Both are very nasty.

* * *

  


Ray tweets Gavin to answer questions and talk about X-Ray and Vav all the time. Once Michael even saw them exchange selfies.

Ray sees Geoff's tweet about commissioning merch options and not only retweets it, but texts Geoff the name of some artists that he's worked with before and would match the style of the band.

Ray meets Ryan at a music event and posts a picture of the two of them, captioned “The R&R connection rides again [one hundred emoji]”. It goes viral.

Ray hasn't contacted Michael in 243 days. Not that he's counting, or anything.

* * *

  


It’s the night before their first stop on the _Dead as Dicks_ tour, their first big concert with the new lineup, an overcast night in Dallas.

Michael’s lying face down in the hotel bed. There is a chilled beer sitting just out of his reach on the nightstand and $1.75 still sitting in the soda machine outside.  
He hopes that whoever heads there next enjoys their free drink.

He’d… forgotten.

It’s an iciness in his chest, slowly funneling its way through to his extremities, pins and needles taking over him as he loses feeling. It’s heavy and overwhelming, and it’s keeping him awake, leaving him to do nothing but wallow by himself.

He flips over briefly to look at the time, the LED alarm clock projecting it onto the ceiling. 2:45 am.

_Well_, Michael thinks to himself, _isn’t this just a kick in the balls._

And then there’s a knock at the door.

Using what remains of his energy, he manages to pull himself out of bed and shuffle towards the front of his room.

Another knock.

“This better be good,” Michael calls out as he opens the door.

It’s Gavin. He’s in one of their old tour shirts and a pair of flannel pajamas bottoms, holding a six-pack with a big grin.

“Ey, boi!”

“It’s three in the morning, Gavin.” Michael says flatly.

“Well when else are the good episodes of Mythbusters on?” Gavin asks, shoving past him. He throws himself down on the other side of Michael’s bed and waggles a Shiner towards him.

“Come on, Michael boi,” he says with another easy smile, “don’t you want to see if they bust the myths?”

Michael sighs and sits down next to him, accepting the beer with a slight reluctance.

As soon as he starts to drink, Gavin starts talking at a mile a minute, everything from explaining the filming techniques they’re using (_“I was almost a film major you know” “Yeah, I know, you never shut up about it”_) to his hypothesis to how he would build it better to laughing at the failed attempts. He barely stops to breathe, let alone to let Michael get a word in edgewise. But it’s nice, to not have to worry about keeping up the conversation.

And slowly, Michael warms up.

* * *

> MICHAEL JONES **LUNGES AT RAY NARVAEZ JR...**Feud heating up?  
TMZ EXCLUSIVE
> 
> The Hunters break up may not have been as clean as we were lead to believe! Footage taken from the Grammys Celebration last night show Michael Jones leaping at ex-band member Ray Narvaez Jr in a fit of rage before being dragged away by his fellow band members.
> 
> [embedded twitter video]
> 
> Though the audio is hard to hear, sources say the two were fighting about some ‘man’ they both knew. Jealous much?
> 
> After the rumors that half of the new songs are about Narvaez...maybe Michael’s really NOT over it.

* * *

He knew he never should have gone to that fucking party.

Ray didn’t even want to go to the Grammys in the first place.

It’ll be great exposure, Tina said. You just gotta present one award, Tina said. Painless, Tina said.

And at first, it was. He and whatever tweeny-bopper they had up there with him got along well enough; they gave out the award and it was great, the cameras loved him and he was getting a lot of at-replies on Twitter about his suit. Said tweeny-bopper was a fan of his music, and invited him to the official-unofficial after party.

Go, Tina said. Have fun! Make connections.

So he did, because he did need to get some artists featured on his new album to boost it into Billboard's Hot 100.

Everything was genuinely, totally chill. Until they saw him — well, until _he_ saw him.

“Ray!” Ryan yells, bounding across the room and pulling him into an embrace, “It’s so good to see you.”

Ray laughs, warmth blooming in his chest. He didn’t realize how much he had missed Ryan, missed their friendship, until this moment. He’s surprisingly genuine when he replies, “It’s good to see you too, you big puppy.”  
He pulls away to regard a familiar face. “You must be Jeremy?”

Jeremy smiles wide. “Yeah, it’s my pleasure to meet ya, Ray. This guy doesn’t shut up about you.” He sticks out his hand, and Ray doesn’t hesitate to shake it. It’s nice to see the guys again.

Well, except that Michael is standing about 3 feet away, just staring blankly at him.

Ryan and Jeremy are still chattering away beside him, and Ray knew he needed to say some sort of off-hand joke to pretend he was listening, but he couldn’t hear anything over his heartbeat in his ears. He keeps his eyes pointed on Ryan, trying to ignore what’s in his peripheral vision. If he had known the other man would be here, he wouldn’t have come. Michael’s eyes on him make his skin crawl.

“Oh! Michael,” Jeremy says, nodding towards Ray and Ryan, “come on over dude! I thought you left.”

Michael lumbers over into range, smelling of hard liquor with his eyes still devoid of emotion. Cool cool cool. How bad could this be? It’s not like the two of them have been passive-aggressively confronting each other through songs for the past 8 months.

“Uh, hey,” Ray says, voice cracking slightly.  
Ryan glances between the two of them before grabbing Jeremy and muttering an excuse about drinks, pulling them out of range.

“Hey.” Michael replies.

“So uh, how’s uh, how’s it been going.” Ray says, wringing his hands together. Was it hot in here? Probably just him.

“It’s been going fine. Same old same old,” Michael shrugs, still monotone. There were more lively corpses.

There’s a beat of silence, the two just staring at each other.

“Quite the party animal tonight huh?” Ray says to fill the void, scraping together an approximation of a sideways grin.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Not my scene. Didn’t think it was yours either.”

“It’s not,” Ray half-laughs, “Gotta do what you gotta do, man.”

Michael laughs, too, with an unmistakable bitterness. “Thought you gave it up so you could do whatever you wanted.”

Ray digs his nails into his hand to avoid scoffing. Of course Michael only wanted to dreg up old shit between them. No maturity, no attempt at civility. Jackass. “I still gotta promote myself, dude.”

“Yeah no,” Michael says, and the stench of moonshine is almost overwhelming (_where did he even _get_ moonshine here?_), “I get you. Thought you were doing that well enough with my shit though.”

“You fucking wrote it for me, Michael,” Ray snaps, crossing his arms. “You told me it was my fucking bassline.”

“Yeah, when we were fucking friends. You don’t get the privilege of free shit anymore.”

“Who says we’re not friends?”

Michael pretends to consider this, looking around the room. They’re much too close, the body heat radiating off the other man unbearable. Ray needs to get the fuck out of this room.  
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the thirty fucking unread text messages?”

“Funny,” Ray snaps, seething, “I would have said it was your collection of songs. Fuck, release the Ray EP, I’ll sign it and everything for you.”

He and Michael are the same height but as the other man steps forward he feels Michael tower over him. Ray starts to back up but hits a table before he can go very far.  
“What do you want me to say, Michael?” Ray continues, gesticulating for emphasis. “Do you want me to apologize? Tell you I’m sorry I left and hurt your goddamn feelings? I’m not and I won’t.”

Michael shakes his head, his face scrunching. “Did you ever stop to think about how’d I’d fucking feel?” he asks.

“How about how I feel, dickhead,” Ray counters, pointing wildly between the two of them, “How about how I feel every fucking day watching you choose everyone else over me when it was _our_ fucking music first. We were the fucking band, Michael, and yeah Hunters was _great_ but when did you ever fight for me? Our sound? How do you think it feels to watch your best friend replace you?”

Michael’s mouth thins, nearly disappearing into his face. “So you admit it,” he says, voice sour and resigned, “It’s been about Gavin the whole time.”

“You’re a fucking bastard,” Ray spits, his hands now clenched into fists at his side. “Always with that piece of shit who doesn’t care about anyone but himself. I hope you’re happy with that fucking idiot, you two are a great match.”

Michael steps back like he’s been punched, his entire body tensing, eyes going dark, and immediately Ray realizes he made a mistake.

And then —

* * *

  


“AND THEN,” Lindsay shouts, slapping this week’s US Weekly in front of Michael, “you fucking _jumped_ at him. What were you gonna do Michael, huh? What were you gonna do?”

The photos in the spread, though blurry, clearly showed two events:

  1. Michael lunging at Ray, fists raised.
  2. Ryan and Jeremy grabbing him around the waist and arms and dragging him away.

He didn’t remember it well. The two dragging him out and tossing him in a cab, well, that he remembered.

“I wasn’t...he antagonized me,” Michael tries, his protests dying in his throat. He saw red, two nights ago, and he knew in his heart he was ready to beat the shit out of Ray. If Ryan and Jeremy didn’t step in, the headline may have been much worse.

“Do you know how much of a headache this is for me?” Lindsay asks wearily, slumping down in her chair and rubbing her temples. “The executives from the record company think you’re a _liability_ —”

_“What?”_

“— and they want you out of the band. Do you know how many phone calls I’ve had to make about how your stage temper is just an act, a persona, when you’re getting trashed at parties and attacking your former band mates? 15. _Today._ And it’s ten in the goddamn morning.”

Michael says nothing as Lindsay drops her head against her desk, favoring to look at his hands instead.

Lindsay sighs. “I’m not gonna let them kick you out,” she says, muffled against the desk, “Burnie and Matt trust me and they’re fighting the upper management too. But Michael, I swear to God, if you pull this shit again you won’t even be able to book a show at a Chuck-E-Cheese.”

Michael laughs despite himself and salutes. “I gotcha, boss,” he says, standing to leave.

“I’m not kidding!” Lindsay yells as he leaves, but he could tell from her tone she was satisfied with his answer.

* * *

  


Michael sits on the balcony of a familiar London hotel, two floors up. Today was the one year anniversary of Ray putting out his first EP. A month ago was the one year anniversary of Ray telling Michael he was leaving.

He’s leaning against the railing, sitting on the cold cement, phone open to a draft of a congratulations tweet.

He hasn’t spoken to Ray since that night.

“Michael,” Gavin asks from inside, “you alright?”

“I’m fine, Gav.” Michael says, internally cursing whoever accidentally double-booked them on this publicity tour.

Footsteps grow closer and soon Gavin is out on the balcony too, resting against the open glass door.

“Shame you can’t see the stars, huh?” Gavin comments, staring out into the fog of the city, a small smile on his face.

Michael says nothing.

“Tell me to shut up whenever you want,” Gavin says in reply, and launches into a spiel about his hometown, and Dan, and the stupid shit Dan would make up about astrology to get girls.

Michael deletes the tweet, locks his phone, and throws it back into the hotel room.

* * *

_Dead as Dicks_ went double gold the same week as _Achievement Unlocked_ hit platinum, so the label decided the only way to celebrate was to buy out a bar and let them have at it.

It’s a quiet little place, dead between Austin and Johnson City, overlooking the river. It’s surprisingly modern, with fairy lights and mason jar candles on standing room only tables and bookshelves hung over cushioned booths. Jeremy was trying to get Matt and the rest of the sound crew to challenge him to a drink off (which was working), Ryan and Lindsay had rearranged some tables to form a dance floor for themselves, and Geoff was shoved into a corner, nursing a Coke, chatting with Gus while Jack, Burnie, and Matt shot the shit next to them.

Michael was up on the roof.

He’s sitting on the ledge, bouncing his feet up and down on the exterior brick wall. Normally he’d be the first guy getting the party started, especially when peer-pressuring Matt was involved, but today was, well.

He and Ray had met in person for the first time nine years ago.  
Thanks, Facebook.

They had gone to dinner at some shitty chain, then an arcade, then a movie. Michael took the train up every other weekend after that. Somewhere in there they had gone into a thrift store, Ray bought a bass (_‘Yo, you gonna teach me?’ ‘In your fucking dreams’_) and Michael brought up his guitar the next time. The rest was history. Geoff heard their demos, invited them to the band he was building, and now…

Ray had him unfollowed him on virtually every social media the two shared. Even on fucking Skype.

A beer glass clinks down on the tile next to him, two feet swinging down over the ledge.

“‘Ey, boi,” Gavin says, smiling over at him. A plaid shirt is hanging loosely off his frame, his jeans are freshly ripped at the knee, and his breath stinks of booze.

Michael chuckles and flicks at the glasses he’s wearing. “Where did you get those, dipshit?”

Gavin touches his face, eyes befuddled before lighting up. “Oh! These! Barbara put them on me. Do you know her? She works promotion for Cockbite. She’s nice. D’ya like them?”

“Yeah, sure,” Michael laughs, “They’re doing a valiant job of not stretching out over your bigass nose”

“Oi!” he protests, pulling the glasses off and swatting them at Michael, “Not all of us have a face meant for glasses.”

“Why, do you think I look good in these?” Michael says, eyes flashing with a big grin.

“Oh, shut up.” Gavin laughs, and he throws the glasses in the pocket of his shirt.

They’re quiet for a while, admiring the view. The night sky is cloudless. The stars twinkle off the river, the light of them bouncing off and hitting them on the roof, dancing in Gavin’s eyes. It’s beautiful.

“I miss him too,” Gavin admits quietly. Michael shoots him a surprised look, but Gavin pushes on. “We weren’t exactly, well, I wouldn’t call us friends but when he didn’t hate me, that was fun. We had fun together, the three of us. ”

“I —”

“You didn’t need to say it,” Gavin cuts him off, “We’ve all noticed. Lindsay was actually about to stage an intervention.”

Michael huffs in amusement and looks back at the river. “Yeah that sounds like her.”

Gavin reaches behind to grab his beer, draining it one go. “Christ, this tastes like piss,” he says, grimacing.

Michael laughs. “Then why are you drinking it, dumbass?”

Gavin just shakes his head, drumming the empty bottle against his shredded knee.

“What happened to you anyway?” Michael asks, gesturing towards the dried blood and torn denim.

“Tripped.”

“Of course you did. You really would die without me.”

Gavin laughs, but it’s lined with something Michael can’t place.

They were quiet again then, for an hour or a minute or a century, until, “I miss him but, we got a good thing going on right now, the two of us, yeah?”

“Yeah, Gavin, you’re my boi.”

“Right,” Gavin says, staring at the bottle thrumming against his knee, “But he was too. Not your boi but your...boy.”

Michael turns to Gavin, eyebrows furrowed.

He took a deep breath then, turning to look Michael dead in the eye. “Do you wish I were Ray instead?”

“Are you drunk?” Michael asks instead.

“Yes,” Gavin answers, “but don’t avoid the question.”

Michael flounders. His eyes filled with a thousand questions, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to come up with a response.  
_No, of course not._  
_ Yes, of course I do._  
_ How could I even compare the two of you?_

Gavin smiles sadly. “Yeah, s’what I thought. Don’t worry about it, Michael, I get it.”

“Gavin?” Michael finally spits out.

Gavin pats him on the back in response. “I’ll see you downstairs. Don’t wait too long, Matt’s probably gonna vom, so I’m gonna vom.”

He leans over, and gently kisses Michael’s cheek. Then he clambers to his feet, presumably walking towards the door.

Michael’s brain has stopped working.

_Do you wish I was Ray?_ What does that mean? And then he kissed him and — _oh._

That’s what he meant.

He and Ray had never used labels.

They had been too close to be best friends but too distant to be lovers. A thin line drawn by _‘no homo' _jokes and_ ‘haha what if’._ A pining glance here and there, sitting too close to each other on the couch, “jokingly” holding hands.

“Gay marriage is legal in New York,” Ray had said.  
“Well, guess we better send out save the dates,” Michael responded. Ray’s laugh was choked, Michael’s grin was broken.

They could have been...they should have been.  
He misses it, even if he didn’t know what it was at the time. Even if he still doesn’t know what it was, really.

But Gavin is...different.  
He’s warm where Ray was detached. Jokes when Ray would be serious and is serious when Ray would joke. He blabbers on when he’s nervous or drunk or both and he makes Michael laugh in ways Ray couldn’t.

And where Ray was hesitant about them, like their relationship had been made of glass and the wrong move would shatter it completely, Gavin clearly was not.

It wasn’t the same kind of emotion, whatever he felt for Gavin and whatever he felt for Ray. It never had been. It was...not better, per say, but different. Ray had made his hands tingle and his heart ache. Gavin made his head light and his heart soar.

They weren’t even comparable. How could Gavin — Does Gavin think he doesn’t love him back? Oh, _fuck._

Michael nearly falls off the roof in his desperation to get back to the party. The music grows louder and the lights seem brighter and he is most definitely sweating, taking the steps two at a time.

“Michael!” Jeremy shouts, tumbling over to him. “SHOTS!”

Matt yells “NO!” from beside him, draped over a table. Michael looks over his head, scanning the room. People are packed into almost every corner, filling his vision, leaving barely enough room for him to spot the familiar brown hair at a table towards the back.

“Ignore him,” Jeremy says, “he’s being a COWARD.”

“Jeremy,” Matt says, exasperated.

Michael laughs distractedly. “Yes, shots. Definitely. I just gotta do one thing…” he says in response, dancing around people to cross the crowded bar.

Gavin is sipping a glass of water, seemingly ignoring whatever Lindsay is saying. He’s smiling at her but it’s not reaching his eyes.

Michael reaches the table as she’s mid-sentence, saying, “...Geoff’s your fake dad or whatever, but you don’t need to listen to him. Go have another drink, Gavin, then you’ll wanna dance, c’mon.”

“Michael!” Lindsay calls when she realizes he’s there, “Tell Gavin he should dance with me!”

“You should dance with her,” Michael says in response. Gavin shrugs noncommittally. The water makes Michael’s heart flip; Gavin only ever sobers up when he’s afraid he’ll say too much. “Lindsay, can you go grab me a drink? I’m too sober in this bitch.”

Lindsay looks at him, then looks at Gavin, and smiles wide. “Sure thing,” she responds, and waggles her eyebrows at him as she leaves.

Michael saddles up beside Gavin, the two of them leaning on the table in front of them, watching their friends cause a scene.

“I don’t, for the record.”

Gavin looks over at him, his eyes slightly glassy from the liquor, giving his best impression of a six year old who skinned his knee and is desperately trying to hold it together in front of the older kids.

“Wish you were Ray,” Michael finishes.

Gavin’s eyes fill with hesitant surprise and it’s just about the cutest thing Michael has ever seen.

Tomorrow, when they’re sober, they’ll have a long conversation about their feelings. They’ll hash it out and set boundaries and figure out what’s private and what’s public and when to reveal it.

But for tonight, Michael reaches over to grab Gavin by the back of the head and pulls him into a kiss, and the gasp of pure happiness against his lips is enough.

* * *

It’s called _Rosebud_.

It’s the last one, Michael tells himself. The very last one.

He pours all of the emotion into it — the rage, the pain, the bittersweetness, the loss.

It’s cathartic.

_Is it even a breakup,_ he writes, ink staining his fingers,_ if you were never together at all?_

* * *

It goes platinum in a week.  
  
Which, knowing Michael, doesn’t surprise him at all.

Ray sees the speculation in his mentions (_‘but you were the _rose guy_ Ray, it's you isn’t it?’_) and in the media (_‘Mystery Woman in Jones’s life?’_) but largely pretends the song doesn’t exist.

Well, that’s what he tells Tina, anyway.

In dark moments, when he’s alone, when he feels regret, when he thinks about falling back into a label, thinks about how easy it all was even though he enjoyed it less — thinks about _him_, well, that’s a different story.

Ray lies in the dark, _Rosebud_ looping on a shuffled playlist of all of the songs he think might be about him.

MIchael’s voice washes over him as he stares at the ceiling, fuzzing his brain around the edges. The lump in his throat gets larger. He doesn’t cry.

It is a breakup, he thinks to himself, and they were, in their own way, together.

* * *

Four years, Ray thinks to himself. It had been four years since he left, nearly to the day.

“_hey,_” Michael’s text reads, “_wrote a song about the ib crew and i could use you on the hook. We got studio time for the next three weeks. You in?_”

Ray thumb hovered above the screen.

Four years. Three albums and an EP. He’s engaged now. He has his own professional music studio. Hunters are one of the biggest bands in the pop-punk scene. They just got off a world tour. Michael is out and proud. He and Gavin had never been happier.

A lot had changed. For both of them.  
He hits send.

“_yes_”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Monster by dodie, the inspiration of the fic. A big thanks to ghost, my dear friend who I owe the world to for betaing this fic at the last minute so that my posting schedule could stay consistent.


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